


Unwind, To Pamper

by nakajimagardenar



Series: The One Where You Do Giant Alien Robots [7]
Category: The Transformers (Cartoon Generation One), Transformers Generation One
Genre: Doll Play, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Oviposition Mention, Pet Play, Possessive Behavior, Reader has female parts, Reader has no defined gender, SCRAPPER IS MY HUSBAND AND I LIVE FOR DOLL PLAY, Smut, TAKE ME TO HEURCH (HELL CHURCH), THE IDEAL TBH, THIS IS OLDER THAN MY OTHER WORKS BUT FUCK SCRAPPER NEEDS MORE LOVE, Xenophilia, breeding mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-09
Updated: 2016-02-09
Packaged: 2018-05-19 08:17:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5960458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nakajimagardenar/pseuds/nakajimagardenar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scrapper unwinds in the strangest of ways.</p><p>[A story about everyone’s favourite front-end loader; pet play and doll play, and you.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unwind, To Pamper

**Author's Note:**

> Behold my decent into hell (it gets better, maybe).

You sigh, absently running your fingers against the bare skin of your thigh. The water is hot, hotter than you would have liked, but there really isn’t much you can do about it now. The water stirs, and you look up at the Constructicon towering over you, the soft glow of his visor illuminating the darkened room, illuminating your naked skin.

“You’re absolutely filthy,” He murmurs, shaking his head and reaching down to pluck a soft sponge off the counter before turning to face you, and (not for the first time) you feel like you are some kind of pet, like a favourite doll. That really isn’t to far from the truth. You remain motionless as he settles down next to you and takes one of your arms between careful fingers, slowly dragging the sponge across your limb, past the bend of your elbow and up the slope of your shoulder. There’s a quiet sort of gentleness in Scrapper’s movements, and you can’t help but lean into his touch when he brings the sponge to rest against your neck, and you are unable to stop the way your lips part, mouth sliding open and a half whispered moan tumbling out of you.

The Constructicon chuckles at your reaction, and the sound is dark and deep, it rumbles against your bones and sets your teeth on edge, races down your spine and settles itself in the pit of your stomach. You aren’t certain if he noticed your reaction, so instead you watch him drag the sponge along the curve of your collarbone, over the slope of your chest, and into the foamy water you’re currently occupying. You say nothing when Scrapper reaches down to carefully pluck you out of the water, and you say nothing when he continues to scrub your body with the single minded obsession of a bot on a mission (you’ve done this many times before, but it never really stops being a little strange to you).

It’s all very clinical really, and you’re almost lulled to sleep by the experience, losing yourself to the soothing circular motions the Constructicon seems intent on drilling into your stomach, but you’re pulled completely out of your sleepy tranquility when Scrapper drags the sponge between your legs, dragging it down along the contour of your now flushed skin.

“Is something wrong?” His voice is calm, concerned even, but the look on his face is anything but innocent. You glare at him for all of a second before he does it again, and whatever indignant response you had planned is lost when you arch your back, hips snapping upwards as you claw uselessly against his hand. “Well if nothing’s wrong, then I’ll continue.” You don’t even have to look at him to know he’s got that insufferable smug look on his face, you’re positively sure of it when he starts to rub your body with his free hand, his deft metal fingers ghosting over naked skin to smear soap all over you.

He takes his time running his hand all over your torso, following the shape of your hips and the dip of your back, his fingers traveling along the gentle swell of your chest, down the softness of your belly, before he slips a finger between your legs to draw lazy little circles against your inner thigh. You tense up, chest heaving as you struggle to raise your head to look down at what he’s doing, but it does you no good when he rubs the tip of his finger against your opening.

“Hmm.” He makes a sound, and you’re frozen on the spot when he raises you up closer to his face, and suddenly all you can see is illuminated red, but all that is quickly taken away from you when he presses you up against the side of his face, and suddenly you’re all too aware of how cold he is against your skin, how the gentle thrumming of his engine is sending a chill completely unrelated to the low temperature shooting down your spine. You get the distinct impression that the con is taking in your smell when he begins to gently, carefully rub you against the side of his face, one of his fingers tracing the shape of your spine all the way down to your backside.

He returns you to the now lukewarm water, petting you gently and toying with your hair, and then he presses his finger against your mouth and you swear it’s almost reverent when he nudges your lips apart, easing the edge of his finger past your teeth and pressing against the tip of your tongue. You don’t have to be told what to do, immediately reaching up with both of your hands to hold onto his finger, and you get on your knees before kissing hard steel, and now it’s your fingers slipping into the tiny seams of his plating and brushing against sensitive wiring.

There’s only the slightest change in Scrapper’s expression when you start nuzzling against his hand, but it’s impossible for you to miss the way his frame shudders, and you are given absolutely no chance to prepare yourself before he pulls his finger away to stroke your cheek, to fondle your chest, to slide back down to the place between your legs. “You’re still wet?”

The Constructicon tilts his head to the side, tone barely neutral enough to keep his teasing from being too obvious, “Or maybe, you’re wet because of me?” He punctuates his question by giving you a hard rub, and again you’re gasping and arching your back, dragged up to your knees when he curls his finger against your entrance, and god it’s hot all over again. “Show me,” He gives a command, expression just shy from leering, “Show me what you want to do. Tell me what you want.”

“I want - ” Your voice cracks just then, and your hands fumble as you try desperately to find a better position, but ultimately you find yourself straddling his finger, and almost as if on their own accord your hips start to grind against him. “I want you to - No, I want to have sex with you.” You look up at the Decepticon, your hips still bucking carelessly, dripping and staining metal with your own fluids (there was a time this would have all been so mortifying to you, but those times have long past). “I want you to make me feel good, and I want - I want to make you feel good, too.”

Scrapper smiles (as much as one without a mouth can), “What a good human. Such a perfect human. You are doing so well, I’m so proud of you.” You preen at his praise, and rut a little bit more against him. The sharp hiss of hydrolics and shifting plating sends anticipation pooling in the pit of your stomach, and you’re rewarded with the sight of both his midcables sliding teasingly against your thighs, and his spike coming out and pressurizing. “Now then, I should reward you for being so well behaved in the bath, shouldn’t I? And you’re so honest with your feelings, I should reward you for that too.”

He flicks his wrist carefully, removing you from your messy perch and laying you down on your stomach on the damp counter, and after what seems like much, much too long, you feel the head of his midcable slide into you, lingering for a moment at your entrance before thrusting inside. You gasp sharply, clawing frantically at the smooth counter, breaking down into muffled little sobs when he pulls out almost entirely only to thrust back into you, rough enough that you actually begin to slide forward.

“S-Scrapper - !!” His name escapes you as a half whined, half sobbed noise, and one of his hands grasps onto your hips, pinning you down as he continues to thrust in and out of you with his midcables, and even if you can’t see from your current position, the labored sounds of his internal fans kicking in confirm to you that he’s busy stroking his spike with his other hand in time with his thrusts. “You know, you’ve been such a good pet, maybe I should - ” He pauses, turning you over onto your back so he can watch you writhing and gasping, “Finally breed you - Long Haul’s right, you would look so beautiful filled up with eggs. My eggs. You’d like that, wouldn’t you pet?”

He continues to thrust his midcable into you, inching deeper and deeper each time they plow forward, and he’s pinned you in place by catching your wrists and holding them above your head. You try to answer Scrapper’s question (yes, god yes I want you to breed me - !!), but all you can manage are broken cries of pleasure and sharp gasps, so instead you look imploringly up at him, nodding vigerously and somehow getting a few broken pleas out from between all your moans. It’s more than a good enough answer for him, and he all but looms over you when he lowers his head to gently touch his forehead against yours. The gesture catches you off guard for a second, and then you’re smiling, something small and warm bubbling up in your chest.

You’re pulled away from your tender feelings by a particularly deep thrust, and you all but shriek when his midcable curls about inside of you, pushing you into a violent orgasm that sends your eyes rolling to the back of your head and your toes curling, and you’re chanting Scrapper’s name like a desperate prayer when you crash back down, and -

And Scrapper is laughing (not unkindly), the fluid motion of his thrusts still going, and you can feel yourself getting wound up all over again. “I’m going to begin filling you with eggs now, pet. It might feel odd at first, but it shouldn’t hurt.” A second midcable joins the first inside of you, thicker and with a more tube like appearance, and it only occurs to you why that might be when you feel something thick and heavy pushed inside of you, and another joins the first in its upward migration deep inside of you.

A third and a fourth, a fifth, a sixth - You arch upward, rolling your hips and god, you can feel them moving along inside of you, and Scapper is still thrusting, optic band dimmed in that way you know means he close, and then the eggs hit something inside of you, something that feels incredible, and you come for a second time, tightening and clenching around the Decepticon’s midcable and inevitably taking him down with you, the counter you’re sprawled out creaking in violent protest from the force of Scrapper’s shaking when he comes.

You take a rush of transfluid between your legs and over your stomach, and the first thing Scrapper does when he regains control of himself is to offer you a mildly apologetic look. “You’re filthy all over again,” He comments fondly, scooping you up as carefully as possible and touching the small, warm bulge in your stomach with muted approval.

“I suppose I’ll have to bathe you all over again.”

And frankly, you can’t wait.

**Author's Note:**

> Did I mention that Scrapper is my husband and doll play is The Ideal™? Hit me up, send me Transformers or Undertale prompts, or just tell me that I need to stop sinning at http://muffetsofficial.tumblr.com/ !!


End file.
